The Melting of the Snowflake
The harem-mistress had belonged to the old king, who gave her
to his son. By then she was past her prime of beauty. Prince Sharvic
had dismissed her from his bed and put her in charge of his small
flock of young concubines. It was her duty to keep the women cleaned,
plucked, dressed, and made-up to the prince's satisfaction, fed but
not too much so, and empty of children.
The prince's latest acquisition would be a challenge on most
counts.
The mistress eyed Valmere, the former queen of Fel, where she
stood in rent armor, dripping mud and a little blood onto the delicate
Keshlan carpet. Valmere was tall and ice-pale, with cropped hair the
color of fire-lit gold and eyes like cloudy gemstones. Her body, when
the women had stripped her and washed away the marks of her last
battle, was lean and taut as a bow. Her hands were nearly spoilt with
calluses, and her skin marked by the steel claws of war. It was a
waste of such rare beauty, thought the mistress, to send this woman
into battle.
"Mind you please the prince," counseled the mistress, as two
women trimmed the nails of Valmere's hands and one woman between her
legs singed off her immodest brush of pubic hair. "Be pliant. Keep
your eyes on the ground at his feet. Don't speak unless he asks of
you. Endear yourself to him, and he will ask for you again and again.
Defy him and he will have you beaten."
Through all of this Valmere was silent. The mistress began to
doubt that the barbarian woman could even understand her speech.
The servant women dressed her in a gown of pale yellow, and
softened her severe face and short hair with a fine net of gold and
pearls. A string of pearls was hung also at her throat, and her
rough hands encased in white gloves. They left her barefoot, for she
was nearly as tall as the prince, who was himself not small. He might
see her lofty height as an affront.
"Hurry," the mistress urged her women. "We must present her
to the prince before sunset."
They had Valmere completed, like a confection from the
kitchen, just as the soldiers pounded on the outer door. The mistress
stepped back to appraise her work. She called for a bit more powder
to cover the cut on Valmere's cheek. Then as the mistress once more
opened her mouth to admonish her charge, the words died unsaid. The
once-queen's eyes had returned from the distance. Her gaze cut the
mistress with such bitter-edged contempt that she stepped back,
stammering. Then the men outside were pounding upon the door again.
The women of the harem opened it up and, hastily pushing Valmere out
into the hall, slammed it shut before they could be seen.
The soldiers formed rank around Valmere, two in front, two
behind, and four on either side. Their weapons were sheathed, for the
once-queen was unarmed and barefoot, no threat to them now. Valmere
had slain many of their comrades with her own hands, shaming the army
utterly. Any of the soldiers would have given gold for the chance to
shame her in turn. Well, that was the prince's privilege. They
looked at her sideways to see if she would struggle and give them an
excuse to lay hands on her.
Silent yet, Valmere stepped forward with them through the
stone hallway. A heavy door separated the living quarters from the
rest of the palace. As they proceeded, their boots rattling on the
floors and her bare feet making no sound, the inner walls of the small
palace began to open outward. Great stone planters of winter trees
grew larger and more elaborate. The unglazed windows, open to the
cold sun, gave way to arched gateways of ivy and holly. The ceiling
vanished. The paving stones beneath their feet bloomed into a
delicate pattern of garden path, lined with small evergreens. At last
the winter garden spread before them up to the very edge of the
two-hundred foot cliff that overlooked a frozen lake. Only a low
stone wall separated tended walkway and fatal fall.
Prince Sharvic of Teluron awaited them on the terrace, framed
by sunset and storm clouds. He wore black leather and chainmail under
his red-emblazoned surcoat. His hair, a dark stallion's mane of it,
stirred in the slight breeze. He was strikingly handsome and wanted
everyone else to know it.
Sharvic was only twenty years old and already owned the world,
or as much of it as he cared to. He had built this isolated castle
into an impregnable fortress and trained the largest standing army
seen in centuries. His father, the old king, would not approve. The
king, however, was wintering on the coast, two week's hard ride away.
His army was a mere ceremonial guard. If the king were wise, he would
lend his retroactive blessing to Sharvic's ventures.
The blood of Sharvic's heart heated as he looked upon Valmere.
With the conquest of her country, at last he had some land other than
that grudgingly given by his father. He had acclaim, notoriety, all
the riches of plundered Fel, and women other than his father's
cast-offs. He'd caught himself a queen.
Sharvic extended a hand. One of the soldiers prodded Valmere,
who stepped forward. She seemed to Sharvic more translucent than the
snowflakes that had just begun to fall about them, silvering the
terrace. She, once the Ice Queen, the leader of armies, was now
merely another ornament in Sharvic's garden. And if this one lacked
the soft and pretty looks of his other concubines, then perhaps she
would be well compensated in spirit. Valmere was a warrior. Breaking
her would be a most delightful challenge.
Her feet left wet prints where the snow melted beneath her.
She stopped a foot away from the prince's extended hand. Her eyes, he
saw, were empty. Dazed.
"Welcome to the presence of your new master," Sharvic said.
"From now on your only joy is to serve me. My smile is your sun. My
displeasure is your darkest pain." He reached for her face.
Valmere snapped forward like a bough released from a weight of
snow. One fist hammered Sharvic's ribs with a force that he felt even
through the chain. The other slammed into his crotch. Sharvic
howled.
His guard had drawn their weapons and rushed forward. Sharvic
knew with a cold certainty that he had to finish this before they
reached him, or be shamed forever in their eyes. His fists were
mailed with steel, and one of them broke her shoulder. She kicked.
Sharvic seized her and slammed her head down against the wall. A
single drop of blood flew loose and vanished in the distance between
terrace and lake.
"Yield, or I'll slay you now," he said.
Valmere spat.
Sharvic looked into her eyes, really looked for the first
time. In them he saw the gleam of something burning, of steel, of
fangs, and in fact nothing at all he wanted in his bed. As the guard
reached him, he heaved Valmere over the wall.
The ice of the lake gave a thunderous crack, but held her
body. A dark stain filled the fissures in the ice, sketching a bloody
snowflake in the vanishing evening.
"My lord?" said the guard captain, then stepped back hastily
as Sharvic whirled upon him. The captain swallowed and began again.
"Would you like us to retrieve the body?"
"No. Leave her there." In the silence, Sharvic took a couple
of steps toward the castle. "Send someone to bring my meal to my
chamber," he called over his shoulder. "I'll dine alone."
Queen Keluria of Avel was nearly six feet tall, though so
proportioned that one didn't notice her height until standing beside
her. Her hair was red and cut to shoulder length. She was not old,
but her face was too worn with care to be pretty. Her subjects adored
her, foreign armies feared her worse than plague, and the gods smiled
on her with favor. Fair and generous, she had never been known to
slay the bearers of ill news. At least, so the messenger hoped.
The messenger was panting hard, dripping sweat in the frigid
hall. She knelt and handed a scroll to the queen. Keluria thanked
her. Attendants stepped forward to usher the spent woman off to a
bath and some food while Keluria read.
Artere watched her open the scroll. He was as pale and golden
as Valmere, though a little older, and he lacked her warrior's grace.
Artere struck the observer as decorative, but painfully nervous, as if
he always expected to be beaten, and all the more so as Keluria's
hands began to shake. The expressions that twisted her face made him
want to sneak away into some dark corner to hide. Instead he waited
for her to finish and took the scroll in turn.
Fel was taken, it told him. Sharvic slew Valmere. Artere's
world had effectively ended.
Artere slumped against one of the glazed windows. His cheek
melted the patterned frost. Behind him the queen let out a long sigh.
"I will avenge your sister," she said.
When Artere did not answer, she lay gentle hands on his
shoulders, and her lips on his neck. She smelled of horses, hay and
leather, he thought idly.
"Come with me."
Artere followed his queen a measured two steps back, which
wasn't easy since her legs were longer than his. She brought him from
the hall up to the living quarters, and even to the threshold of her
chamber. The attendants hastily awoke and pulled open the door for
them. One ran ahead to light torches and a fire.
The cold room came to life. Flames splashed from the mirror
and the crystal. The attendants vanished swiftly, shutting the door
behind them.
Any other time Artere might have rejoiced at being invited to
Keluria's bed. But grief was too sharp, and he wept when she kissed
him. Her fingers skillfully undressed him upon the fur-covered bed,
and at last she found means to still his tears, and make him cry in
another way.
It was a most diplomatic transaction, Artere thought
afterwards, when the queen thought he slept. She had done the one
thing that might reassure Artere of his position at her side, though
likely she wouldn't bear a child out of this lying-down either. Her
orgasmic cries had been, as always, artfully faked. His hadn't.
Artere's life and happiness depended on his ability to please
someone else. His mother had made that clear as soon as he could
understand, and she had made sure he knew that someone wouldn't be
her. She had wanted a daughter to take up her crown, and when Valmere
was born, she had sent Artere out to foster. After mother's death,
when Valmere was queen, she had gotten her brother the best marriage
in the land. Queen Keluria of Avel wanted safe passage to Fel's
seaports for her rich caravans, and so Artere had been packed off to a
foreign court to seal the bargain.
That Artere could not please Keluria made his hands shake with
worry. She was fair enough to him, never beat him, and saw that her
consort had almost anything he wanted. And if she did not often lie
with him, she at least encouraged him to take lovers. He did,
sometimes, preferring the men or the very young girls, who would be
awed at the attentions of the queen's consort, and less likely to
laugh at him.
Valmere was dead. This left Artere as the nominal heir of
Fel, or what was left of it. Since he was married, the land would
pass to Keluria's hands. Therefore she didn't need him anymore. She
had borne no children to him. She was free to cast him aside and make
another marriage.
Valmere had been kind to Artere. He missed her.
The queen had dressed and left. Artere stretched under the
blankets, then leaned over the edge to snatch up his tunic. A tray of
warm bread and meat had appeared at some point during their passion,
or afterwards. He picked at the food as he dressed.
Keluria's chamber was rather small, the better to hold heat in
the winter. Artere built up the fire and looked around. There were
the usual piles of fine horse tack that she cleaned and oiled herself.
There were boots against the wall, and bits of silver, and a row of
whips hanging from pegs.
Artere took down one of the whips. It had a short, silver
handle and supple leather tails, nine of them. Artere drew them
through his fingers. That was odd. Keluria was an avid horsewoman,
and he'd never seen her strike an animal. Carefully returning the
whip, he shrugged and got his cloak. Keluria would be back that
night, probably with her preferred bed companion, and would want him
gone by then.
Weeks passed, and Avel prepared for war. It would be a just
and fitting war to free the sister land of Fel from cruel bondage and
to avenge the death of a queen. The priestess read favorable omens
from the entrails of dead animals. The gods were pleased. The people
were taking no chances.
Avel's armies were small, at best, so Keluria saw to the
hiring of a company of Keshlan mercenaries. Though some of her
captains expressed distaste, Keluria had chosen wisely. The Keshlani
were brave and loyal to those who paid on time. Though her armies
disliked fighting on the same side as men, it was men who could
negotiate best with Sharvic of Teluron. He had been known to dismiss
unheard women sent as heralds. Besides, some of the Keshlani could be
left to guard the stay-behind farmers against bandits and the
desperate flank actions of a defeated army, leaving Avel's forces the
glory of open battle.
Artere saw little of the arming, and less and less of Keluria.
When she visited the palace, she would eat with him once, then vanish
into her chamber. He passed his time with the bored mercenaries
assigned to guard him, sparring with wooden swords.
Spring arrived.
Unnoticed, the ice of the lake, no longer stained red but now
dirty gray, broke apart in the warming sun. That which had been
Valmere slipped through, into the water, vanishing without a trace.
"If you'd been born into another life," said Sandry, "You'd
have made a fine swordsman. You have the reach, and the eye. Look
for me in Kesh if the queen ever tires of you."
"That isn't funny," Artere said, putting aside his wooden
sword. The day was unseasonably warm, and both men were panting hard.
Sandry shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"Even if I'm not happy here, I won't leave for some place
where men keep women like sheep and cattle."
"Not all lands on the other side of the river are like
Teluron, and not all men are Sharvic. In some places I've seen men
and women fight and farm and love as equals. I must say, I like those
lands best of all. I'd rather have a girl please me for her own joy
than out of fear. And the cavalry women always have the strongest
legs." Sandry grinned widely.
It was hard not to like him. Like most of the Keshlani
mercenaries, he was adept at blending into local custom, and drawing
kind laughter in any language. Rumor had him bedding with a couple of
the officers of the forward army, and those women had their choice.
Artere enjoyed his company because he need do nothing to please him,
only be well and safe.
Sandry pulled three knives out of his pile of cloak and
clothing. Tossing them spinning into the air, he wove them into
breathtaking patterns.
"Aha!" Sandry declared, raining knives about his feet with
seeming carelessness. "You do smile. And here I thought all royalty
had their sense of humor removed at birth."
Artere's smile, suddenly made self-conscious, vanished in an
instant. "I must bathe and dress now."
"In a hurry to leave?"
"The queen may ask for me tonight."
Sandry heaved the elaborate sigh reserved to address the
self-deluded. "If you insist. Come by the weapons yard tomorrow, or
the next day, and play."
After Artere had left, loneliness settled about his throat
like an executioner's cord, cutting his breath and dimming his sight.
The queen, as usual, would not be asking for him. But Artere had a
plan to follow now, and even if it didn't work, it was something to
do.
Whom did Keluria bed, and what did she do with them? Chances
were, most of the palace except Artere knew. He had only to persuade
one of them to tell him. So he spent the next two days in and out of
the kitchen, the laundry, the stables, asking innocuous questions,
waiting for someone to come to him, and at last someone did.
Artere bought his precious information face-down upon the bed
of one of the bakers. The man was rough, but not unkind, and he
seemed to enjoy Artere more than Keluria did. After the payment was
tendered, the baker brought Artere up a back stairway, through a
narrow hall, and up to a small slotted screen. There the baker left
him, telling him to wait and watch.
There was no light from the room on the other side of the
screen. Artere crouched uncomfortably in the passage. Well after
dinnertime, when his fingers had gone numb in the cool air, there came
a noise of doors opening. Someone lit torches. Artere blinked,
startled.
He was looking into the queen's chamber, through a latched
doorway to one side of her bed. This was clearly the passage by which
the kitchen staff made food appear or disappear, and perhaps where the
laundry took the sheets away. Artere leaned forward and adjusted his
eyes to the light.
The queen entered, and with her one of the young captains, a
tall woman with long, thick, dark-bronze hair. Most of the soldiers
wore theirs cut short, though this one was clearly no less a warrior
for her hair, which so much enhanced the beauty of her face. The two
of them were speaking too softly to be heard. Both wore riding
clothes.
Keluria walked towards the fire, out of Artere's line of
sight, possibly to sit in one of the chairs. The captain stripped off
her clothes. She was broad-hipped and small of breast, the sort of
figure favored by artists who painted nymphs and young goddesses. It
seemed she undressed for herself, for the mirrors to adore her, and
for the firelight to caress her body. She brought her hands up
towards her own nipples, which were already small and hard in the
night air. A word of command stopped her. Grinning, she turned and
stood at the foot of the bed, reaching up to hold the loops of the
decorative rope that dangled tassels from the ceiling, and
incidentally providing Artere a breathtaking view of the front of her
body.
Keluria appeared then behind her shoulder, holding the same
whip that Artere had handled. She reached over to tickle the woman's
breast with the tails, and to fold her hair forward over her shoulder.
Already the woman's head was thrown back, her breath deep and steady.
Stepping back, Keluria measured the distance, and struck.
Artere covered his mouth with his hand. Clearly the blow had
upset him more than the woman, for she was grinning widely. He
couldn't see her back, but such a light tap might hardly have reddened
her skin. Keluria struck again and again, alternating blows with
caresses. Her face was rapt, eyes narrowed and gleaming. The other
woman panted. Her legs were spread wider now. The cords of the whip
wrapped around and between her thighs, leaving pink stripes.
Keluria began to hit harder. Her partner sobbed. When the
queen took that as a signal to slow down, the other said clearly,
"More."
That word was repeated twice more, between screams and ragged
gasps. The arc and snap of the queen's arm entranced Artere, who had
never seen such beautiful cruelty. And when the woman at last let go
of the ropes and collapsed into Keluria's arms, Artere was far more
aroused than frightened. The two of them tumbled onto the bed out of
Artere's sight, leaving him with nothing but their rising moans for
company.
"Artere, greetings. It's been near a week since I've seen
you."
It was raining outside, and the queen was seated by the fire,
drinking something hot. She wore a court gown half-unfastened, as if
she'd spent all day in the company of diplomats and courtiers, and
only just had the chance to sit down.
Artere bowed, formally. It had taken him days of patience to
get this audience, and he wasn't about to spoil it by being hurried.
"Are you well?" asked Keluria.
"I am most well. I missed you sorely."
She nodded. "The war is days away at this point. I'll be in
the field tomorrow, and until we have won. This war is for your
family's honor as well, so I appreciate your patience."
"I am patient, and I only ask one favor before you ride into
battle."
"And that is?"
Artere went to the wall when the tack was hung, and took down
the silver-handled whip. The tails swished as he turned. His breath
quickened as he steadied body and mind against the pain he would
demand.
"Let no one say say I cannot please you as you wish to be
pleased."
Keluria's jaw dropped. She shot him a look of utter
confusion.
"Artere, no."
"Don't you understand?" he asked, his voice rising to an
inelegant shout. "I'm nothing if not yours. If you turn your head
from me, I may as well be dead as Valmere!"
Keluria's eyes were sad, her manner once more controlled.
"You are not what I want."
Artere stepped forward and knelt at her feet. He lay his head
on her knee and offered up the impossible weight of the whip with one
shaking hand.
"Then punish me for my failing."
In a whisper of fabric, Keluria stood and slipped from under
him. Moments later he heard the door click shut. Only then did
Artere raise his head and look at the mockingly empty room. He
replaced the whip on its peg and left by the servants' door where
there was, thankfully, no one watching.
The war was fought in three days. Though many had denounced
the prince of Teluron, none could fault his courage.
Sharvic's armies were caught in Fel, unable to retreat past
the river rising in spring flood. His supply trains were rapidly
decimated, and the hostile land yielded him no provisions. Still he
fought, desperately and deviously, until his last troops were
surrounded on a little wooded hill with no water or food.
One fine and breezy morning, Sharvic rode out, unarmed and
unarmored, to surrender himself to the captains of Avel. His men were
all paroled. Sharvic himself was bound and tossed into a wagon for
transport to Avel palace.
That was where Artere saw him at last, standing alone in the
midst of the Avel hall of state. He was surrounded by a broad ring of
armed women, who acted more to keep the furious citizens from rending
him apart than to prevent an escape.
Escape was the last thing they need worry about. Sharvic was
caught, and he knew it. Ever vain, he had no wish but to die in a
manner that might inspire an epic song. He would sooner be gelded
than turn tail and run from his proper and destined end.
Artere watched from a place in the lower balcony of the hall
with Sandry and the rest of the men who cared to watch, but need stay
out of sight. The Council of Barons were seated in full ceremony.
Every woman who could fit had packed into the floor, hoping for a
display of legally sanctioned violence. Keluria herself was seated on
a bench at the sidelines, dressed in a simple tunic, britches and
boots. Anyone who didn't know to look for her would have missed the
queen completely.
"They are the law-keepers," Artere whispered to Sandry. "The
whole Council is needed to pass judgement on a murder case."
"This is not much of a trial," Sandry remarked.
"Yes, but he surrendered, and that's a legal admission of
guilt. Shhh."
The Council president stood up and tapped a scroll on the
table before her. When she spoke, her voice carried to the furthest
corners of the perfectly-shaped hallway.
"Your father, the august king of Teluron, has declined to
intercede on your behalf."
There was a wave of laughter from the assembled crowds. The
king had other sons, and must be delighted to have such a troublesome
heir removed from the picture.
The president glared about in warning, and continued.
"This court has heard no pleas for clemency from any citizen.
The oracles are silent. You are granted one final chance to speak in
your own defense."
Sharvic raised his eyes. "I'll have no words with whores, and
less than none with the queen of whores."
Not a word, not a gesture, not a brush of fabric on skin broke
the stillness in the hall. Artere saw Keluria lean over to whisper to
her captain, the same woman he'd watched her beat in the bedchamber.
The captain sped around the perimeter of the room up the back
of the Council dais. She whispered in turn to the president, who
nodded. Then the captain raised her hand in a signal.
Two soldiers seized Sharvic's wrists and bound them in heavy
leather straps, then in turn to ropes that trailed from the center
columns of the hall. They tightened the bonds until he stood nearly
on tiptoe with his arms spread out widely. One of them ripped off his
tunic. They left him standing there in a square of late sun, with the
sweetly proportioned muscles of his body racked and straining to best
advantage.
Sandry tapped Artere's shoulder. "What are they doing?"
"Shh."
Someone had brought out a brazier set up on a tripod. It was
filled with coals and glowed ever hotter as a soldier worked the
bellows. At last the captain took up the long handle of the iron
brand that rested in the fire.
Sharvic could not see, and neither did he try to turn. When
the captain laid the brand against his shoulder, he moved only as much
as someone stroked with a feather. An aroma of burnt flesh wafted
through the hall. The assembled crowd murmured in disappointment.
The president spoke: "By the authority of this Council and the
will of the gods, you are branded a murderer and remanded to the
perpetual custody of the queen."
"How utterly barbaric," Sandry muttered. "They should have
hanged him."
The captain handed the brand to someone who carried it away.
She drew a long, curved knife from her side and laid it against
Sharvic's throat. His head turned involuntarily as the blade stroked
his skin. The audience was rapt, for so many of them would have
begged to trade places with the captain. How many, ashamed and
silent, would have wished for the fate of the captured prince? How
many would have traded their souls to be so beautiful and brave,
adored and hated?
The knife made love to the curve of Sharvic's shoulder before
vanishing beneath his luxurious mantle of hair. His eyes opened wide
with abrupt understanding, and he made a soft sound of protest. The
captain flicked the edge of the knife backwards. Sharvic screamed, as
if the hair she severed short had nerves.
The captain spoke: "That is payment for the insult you
rendered the Council." She retired into the circle of warriors.
Keluria rose then, unadorned and splendid in her commanding
height and manner. She stood before the bound prince and took from
her belt a heavy, braided length of oiled leather. Forcing up his chin
with the handle, Keluria said: "This is payment for your insult to
me."
Sharvic met for the first time the eyes of the queen who had
staged this entire scene, the woman who owned him now. There passed
between them a moment of complete understanding. For were they not
alike? They each loved cruelty, and a challenge. And each had found
the one person in the world who truly deserved his or her most devoted
attention. Sharvic dipped his head and kissed the whip handle in a
gesture that passed unappreciated by everyone else in the hall.
Except for Artere.
"No," he said. "Not Sharvic. Not Valmere's murderer."
"What?" Sandry whispered.
Keluria had ducked under the binding ropes and uncoiled the
whip with a snap. Sharvic let his head hang down and tensed his
exposed, branded back.
Crack.
Sharvic went up on his toes, breathing a ragged gasp.
Crack.
The audience cringed.
Crack.
Sharvic was grinning, his body arched and eyes shut tight. He
gleamed with sweat and the transfiguration of pain as the blows grew
harder. His skin gave way and bled well before he broke and cried.
But by then Artere had pushed his way back out of the balcony
and down the stairs. The sounds of Keluria's whip and Sharvic's
screams grew fainter as he went.
Sandry was beside him in a flurry of footsteps. "What's
wrong? I don't understand."
Artere sighed. "I do. It's only about time for it."
The gods consented to the annulment, and the legal details
were swiftly hammered out. Artere was given a substantial amount of
gold, most of which he left with a trusted trader who could provide
him a note of credit.
Sandry's company was discharged shortly thereafter.
"I meant it when I told you to come to Kesh," he said. "It's
quite nice this time of year, before the heat sets in." His horse
pulled at the bit as its companions formed up in line in the
courtyard.
Artere considered. "I'm going first to pay my respects at
Valmere's resting place. It's quite safe to travel, and someone
should say the prayers over her, even if she didn't get properly
buried. But after that, who knows?"
They parted in a cloud of dust and galloping horses. Artere
had packed, and the only thing between him and leaving was a final
farewell to his queen.
She received him in her chamber, which was exactly as he
remembered, save for the smouldering-eyed prince who sat at her feet,
collared in black leather and diamonds, like some treasured pet.
Keluria stood and gave Artere her hand.
"I'll miss you," she said, "But I cannot tell you I'm sorry."
Artere shrugged. "I wouldn't want you to be. Shouldn't
everyone get what they want thus, and be so happy with it?"
When no one answered him, Artere bowed and took leave of the
queen.